


All Black, Everything

by heckmedic



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Also Blood, Dark, M/M, dark!Spy, general angsty violent stuff I guess??, mentions of needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckmedic/pseuds/heckmedic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”...  I want to be faithful<br/>I want to be raw<br/>I want to be ignorant<br/>I want to know it all...”</p>
<p>(The Neighborhood, LURK)</p>
<p>Set myself the prompt of “getting dressed up to go somewhere” and it became altogether darker and stranger than I expected. Explores Demo’s unease and uncertainty in his new relationship with Spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Black, Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the [music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfd7uYsKlBo)

Spy liked to think he had a good eye for color. True, he’d been contracted to wear red for the last two years, but now and again he liked to indulge. His wardrobe was packed full of color; entire suits all in pastel blue and pink, forest greens and shimmering, champagne yellows. He had jackets covered with sequins and shirts made out of every kind of fabric imaginable. 

There was one suit, however, which he kept for a very special kind of occasion. It lurked in the back of his wardrobe, surrounded by mothballs and forgotten fur coats. Like a spectre, it hunched over in the dry cleaning bag, waiting patiently until such time as he should choose to wear it again. 

Spy was in the en suite, shaving carefully in the mirror. His companion was in the bedroom donning his own outfit for the evening. Every now and then, Spy would catch the muffled strains of some old country tune being hummed in that baritone voice he adored so much. A scowl flittered onto Spy’s face as he concentrated on not cutting his face open. Cutthroat razors required an especially light touch. As he shaved, he considered his options carefully. A private call, for men who used to be friends of the Administration. They’d have to be stealthy and blend in with the nighttime crowds, but dressed up enough for the venue.

It’d been a while since he’d been to an opera. Last time had been about ten years ago, and he’d been rather sad to have had to leave the leading lady unconscious in her dressing room for the sake of a few words of intelligence. Still, he had worn that suit then and he decided he’d wear that suit now. He finished shaving and wiped the foam from his face before calling through the bathroom door;

“Chéri, can you get my suit please?”

“Which one?”

“In the back of the wardrobe. Still in the dry cleaning bag.”

He listened to his companion rustling around in the packed wardrobe. A minute later, the bathroom door cracked open and the suit was passed through. As Spy unzipped the bag, easing out the contents, he heard his companion stub his toe on the corner of the bed and swear inventively.

“Spy!” He called irritably, “where did you put the revolver?”

Spy glanced up and thought for a second before replying carefully:

“Which one?”

“For Christ’s...The silver one. With the cherrywood stock.”

“Oh, that one. It’s taped to the slats of the bedframe. Near my side, head end.”

He heard his companion drop to his knees and rustle around under the bed. Spy finished retrieving his attire and carefully donned the suit. Somehow, even though it was the most sombre of colors, he always felt youthful when wearing the black suit. It made him think of the mafia in old black and white films, and of Mr Bond, who continued to be his aesthetic role model even so late in his career. He flicked at the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and straightened his tie in the mirror. Snappy and rakish, as always.

Spy exited the bathroom to find his companion still on his knees, rummaging under the bed. A sly grin crossed Spy’s lips and he reached down to neatly swat the backside of his partner, who yelped indignantly

“Ach! I hope you didn’t get shavin’ foam all over the back of my kilt.”

Spy chuckled warmly and knelt beside Demo, reaching up and under the bed before pulling loose the gun that had been taped there. It was already loaded, of course. The woman engraved on the barrel winked at the both of them in the low orange light of the night.

“Of course I didn’t, don’t worry so much.”

He handed the revolver over and brushed down the knees of his pants. Demo stood with a more resigned sigh, sweeping back a stray dreadlock before Spy rose up on his toes and with a deft motion, pulled it back to lie fetchingly loose from the tidy knot the rest had been pulled into.

“I’m going to cut ‘em all off one o’ these days.” Demo grumbled as he holstered the revolver in the pocket of the shoulder holster he was wearing under his jacket. Spy merely smiled in reply; Demo never followed through on threats like that. Those dreadlocks, after all, were terribly useful things to grab a hold of in the bedroom.

To soothe his anxious partner, Spy stood a little closer and re-buttoned Demo’s suit jacket. In the soft glow of the city lights outside, Spy’s sharp face was highlighted perfectly. Bright blue and orange fell in a riot of color on the top of his high cheekbones, catching in the carefully-tamed locks of his black hair. The streaks of grey chasing through it at his temples and forehead seemed to glow silver. Demo willed his remaining eye to work double time to try and burn that image into his mind. He’d only seen Spy maskless once before, and had been unable to appreciate the sight due to the amount of blood involved. Gently, he reached up to catch Spy’s fussing wrists, stopping him from moving away. He resisted the urge to divert his touch to those marvelous cheekbones.

He had realised they weren’t just fuck buddies some time ago. The French endearments had always been there, a _cheri_ cast across the breakfast table, a _cher_ murmured in the doorway. It was Spy’s own particular brand of sarcastic flirtation, only there to irritate and ensorcel Demo both at once. Those same endearments, of course, were more screamed than murmured in situations when considerably less clothing was involved. To Demo, that made the initial embarassment worthwhile.

“Promise me again you’re going to be careful.”

It was a dusky phrase, muttered lowly and carefully as he fixed his eye on Spy’s hands now moving haltingly to intertwine with his own. Honestly, he’d expected Spy to be the one warning him. But he’d spoken to other members of the team, and to Miss Pauling, and Demo had gotten the distinct idea that Spy freelancing was a very different Spy to the one he saw on the field. All of the calculated invisibility and falsified accents there gave way to brazen theft and fist-fighting up close. Demo was afraid he’d been left in charge of a loose cannon, and this was one fuse he most certainly did _not_ want to light.

If this opera house was packed to the rafters as the advertisements claimed, and if these no-longer-friends of Administration were as vicious as they had been told, Spy would have to be entirely present and in control if he wanted to get out alive. Scratch that, if they _both_ wanted to get out alive. In the smoky, icy air of the city, there wasn’t any Respawn system to catch them. Aware of that, Demo wondered briefly about what Spy might look like in hospital whites, drained of all color with a drip piercing his elbow.

That made Demo’s heart thud. Or maybe it was just the impeccable way Spy was dressed.

“Of course I am.” Spy muttered, though he didn’t meet Demo’s gaze.

He wanted to say something. Something more, to make him realise he was serious. But he was just a drunk Scotsman, and Spy was the trained assassin here. And they were just supposed to be fuck buddies, and team mates. He’d toed the line already-he prayed that would be enough.

With a sigh, he rubbed his thumbs in a brief circle on Spy’s wrists before letting him go with a faint sigh. As soon as the strong, capable hands holding him in place were gone, Spy neatly and casually stepped back, retrieving his own blades from where they rested upon the dresser. As Demo watched him tuck one into a sheath concealed in his jacket sleeve and another inside his sock, he wondered how many more were concealed on his person. He wondered where the other revolver, with the ebony stock chased in silver, was hidden. It was there, undoubtedly. Wherever Spy could kill cleanly, he always preferred something a little more artistic. He’d rather paint with red blood than make sculptures of unconscious bodies. 

Demo resisted the urge to call him out on that, too. Administration was going to tidy up after them whatever ended up happening, no matter how much Spy decided he wanted to play. The room was silent, aside from the sound of a helicopter passing overhead. Spy was evading the issue-the multiple issues-as he’d always done. That mysticism had been what drew Demo in like a moth to a flame. Now, he felt it was pulling him away. Maybe, they were just too different to be lovers. But not different enough to not enjoy a good night on the town.

Shoving aside his worries as he had so many times before, Demo forced a ravishing smile onto his face when Spy turned, arms outstretched in a reserved pose.

“So? How do I look?”

_Amazing. Handsome. Beautiful. Deadly. Devious._

“Perfect. As always.”

That wasn’t a lie. The black suit fit Spy like a glove, trimming his already lean waist, broadening his shoulders. His shirt and tie were black too, turning him into some modern retake of the Grim Reaper.Which Demo supposed he was. Even his tie pin and cufflinks were black, little chunks of polished jet that flashed lowly in the colored lights from outside. Removed from all pretensions to color, Demo hoped this was the right Spy-his Spy. The BLU one he’d never seen unmasked. Suppose this was all just a trick on Administration’s part? That Demo was the one to be erased for unknown reasons and this mission with Spy had just been something to drag him out of base and away from the others?

“I could say the same about you, cher.”

The sultry compliment snapped him back into the room. Demo felt positively plain by comparison. His Sunday best wasn’t so good as Spy’s; he just didn’t suit dressing up the same way Spy did. Still, a splash of after shave on his jaw and some polish on his shoes made up for any unease he might have been broadcasting. Spy, for all his killer good looks, had the good grace to make no attempt to hide the obvious eye fucking he did after saying that.

“A shame the kilt is not in the company dress code.” he added as an afterthought.

Demo didn’t need to fake the smirk that prompted. Kilts were traditional Scottish formal wear for a reason; they showed off a man’s toned calves, made blatant the knife worn in his sock. And they were very convenient for helping one Scotsman prove to another that he had more in the packing department. Tavish followed tradition and was buck naked under the red tartan fabric. Spy resisted the urge to lift the hem and check for himself. That could be done later.

The room was small and dark with shadows cut through with blazing beams of light like so many of Sniper’s laser sights. Dressed all in black as he was, Spy all but disappeared against the unlit backdrop of the night and all Demo could really see of him from that shadows was the ice blue of his eyes. Piercing and deadly, as always. Tonight, though, full of a cat-like glee. Demo got the sense that Spy would lick his lips as soon as he laid eyes on the poor souls they were to go after, as though anticipating being able to relish the spatters of blood on his face.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see Spy do the deed or not.

Half-truths and uncertainties. Demo loved and hated that about Spy in equal measure. But he had room for neither where they were going, so he jostled his jacket a little to disguise the shape of the rifle holstered close to his ribs.

“You ready, Spook?”

Demo saw Spy’s teeth flash lowly in the light as he smiled, heard the faintest rustle of cloth as he gestured for Demo to lead the way.

“Of course. Right behind you.”

As he exited the room into the stark chill of the corridor, Demo noted the chill that raced up his spine at the sound of those words. For all the times he had heard Spy mutter things in his ear, shameful things, in that same tone, he could think of at least as many as when he heard Spy describing kills on the battlefield. How strange, that this man spoke of the bodies left in his wake in the same way as he spoke of his conquests in bed. 

All black, Spy was. Right down to his wizened feline heart.

_Yeah. Definitely just fuck buddies_ , Demo decided. He ignored the pang of sadness that followed that thought as they emerged out into the neon-speckled night.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: demospy/bomb voyage is a rarepair and deserves more love.
> 
> ~Leon
> 
> Like what you've read? [Please consider leaving me a tip!](http://www.paypal.me/heckmedic)


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